


the sermon in the suicide

by duchamp



Category: Sicario (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He imagines Kate eating a double cheeseburger with fries and a coke after a raid, after a long day of kicking doors off their hinges; filling out paperwork that will go into a file, that will go into a drawer, that will collect dust, that will never make a difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sermon in the suicide

She could have been a teacher. Middle-school, Kate thinks; she would have liked that.

She was an English major, specializing in British classics. Then the Towers went down, bodies falling like autumn leaves against the New York skyline, and she decided to attend the police academy instead—intent on joining the force, on serving her country, on fighting the good fight. Good deeds and hard work bring about gratification and reward, etc. It was a very simple equation, an uncomplicated code. 

Then she signed the affidavit.

_I could still be a teacher,_ Kate thinks, popping the top off her beer bottle. But, three years of service and a close partnership is hard to break. So Kate downs one beer and picks up another, breaking in the twelve-pack she picked up at Walgreens _._

Eleven more to go.

 

\--

 

“You ok?” Reggie asks.

“I’m fine,” Kate says.

That night, she goes to the grocery store to pick up breath mints to cover up the stench of alcohol on her tongue, and gets frozen pizza for dinner. She takes a detour to the beauty aisle after, picking up concealer and pressed powder. When she shows up to work the next day her breath smells of Listerine, and the dark circles under her eyes are covered under thick layers of makeup.

Reggie looks pleased. Kate smiles, showing all her teeth.

_I’m fine, see. Perfectly fine._

 

\--

 

She sees Alejandro, again—forty-seven days after he placed the mouth of a handgun under her chin—at the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Transit, picking up a sandwich at _Le Pain Quotidien_ of all places. He’s at the check-out and Kate’s frozen in place when he turns and catches her eye.

“Kate,” he says.

She nods, curt. “Alejandro.”

“What were you going to order?” He asks, and Kate just stares.

“The soup of the day,” she says, and watches as Alejandro adds the potato chowder to his order as well, taking out his wallet.

“That’s really not necessary,” Kate says.

Alejandro takes out a twenty. “I insist.”

 

\--

 

She dishes up a spoonful of chowder, watching as Alejandro bites into his sandwich—tomato juice and mayo leaking out from the ends and dripping onto the foil wrapping that’s laid out on the table. 

“Where are you coming from?” Kate asks. “Or, are you going somewhere?”

Alejandro swallows. “I arrived from Virginia,” he answers, and wipes the side of his mouth with a napkin. “Why are you here?”

Kate’s chowder is too hot, burning her mouth. “My sister is in town.”

“That’s nice,” Alejandro says. “Kids?”

“Three,” Kate answers, blowing on her chowder. “All girls.”

Alejandro smiles, and takes the last bite of his sandwich. He starts to gather up his trash. “I have somewhere I need to be. You have a nice time.”

“I will,” Kate says. “Thank you for lunch.”

 

\--

 

She doesn’t know why she calls after Alejandro as he walks away. Why in the name of Jesus H. Christ she says, “I could use a beer later, if you want to join me.” Maybe she’s trying to prove something to herself. Maybe it’s an itch she needs to scratch. Or, the most likely scenario: she’s probably just gone fucking crazy.  

Kate’s surprised when he actually says yes.

They agree to meet up at a bar in Alexandria, and Kate goes to play Barbie’s with her nieces, while Alejandro goes off to do… well, he probably wouldn’t tell Kate even if she asked.

 

\--

 

He falls asleep with the images of his wife and daughter behind his eyelids; wakes with the smell of his wife’s perfume in his nostrils and to the phantom sound of his daughter’s laughter.

He falls asleep remembering two children, their heads blown apart and their brain-matter spread across the expanse of a dining room floor like crushed melon. He wakes to the sound of gunshots.

Alejandro’s thumb traces the gold circumference of his wedding ring.

He’s not sorry.

 

\--

 

What he has with Kate is strange, undefined, and confined to a box in his mental periphery—tucked away, safe and private. There are phone calls that come and go from a disposable cell Alejandro now keeps. There are dinners at the steakhouse right on the border of Interstate 10, whenever Alejandro is in Arizona. Nights spent at Kate’s apartment are few and far between; but they’re comforting if only for the mere fact that when he’s not with Kate, Alejandro’s sleeping in a hotel.

One thing becomes very clear after about five months of this: Kate’s not well. She drinks too much and doesn’t eat enough. She keeps a personal pharmacy of anti-depressants in the bottom drawer of her bedroom dresser, and Alejandro wonders if she really thinks he doesn’t know about the pills or if she just doesn’t care.

The breaking point comes a week before Christmas. Alejandro hasn’t seen Kate in three weeks, and they make plans for Friday night—pasta, maybe a movie. But, Kate isn’t at the apartment. Alejandro tamps down his initial panic, and waits. Kate gave him a set of keys for a reason. She’s probably just busy. So, he waits. And waits. And waits.

Kate eventually shows up at a quarter past eleven, stumbling over her own feet and reeking of hard liquor. Her left wrist is wrapped in an ACE bandage, and she has a cut across her collarbone—half an inch in length, red and slowly oozing blood. She sees Alejandro on the couch and starts to laugh. “You should see the other guy,” she says, before making a beeline for the bathroom.

Alejandro follows. He holds Kate’s hair back as she kneels on sea-foam blue tiles, curled over the toilet, retching. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, and she coughs up phlegm. Her voice is weak and shaking as she tries to take a deep breath, asks—“Why are you staying? Why the fuck are you even here?”

“You know why,” Alejandro says, and wipes the tears from Kate’s face and rubs her back. He doesn’t know what to say next. It’s been too long since he ever had to care for anyone.

It’s been a lifetime since he ever felt the need to.

 

\--

 

The next morning, Alejandro reaches out, sleep-weary, for a form that’s not there. Kate’s side of the bed is empty, but still warm. There’s noise coming from the kitchen. He gets up and tugs on a sweatshirt, leaves the bedroom to see Kate at the stove, flipping over fluffy tufts of yellow in a skillet. “You want coffee?” She asks, not turning to look at him.

Alejandro makes a grunt of thanks and nods, sitting down at the kitchen table. There’s the smell of eggs and fresh milk, bread in the toaster on its way to burning. The sun coming in from the open window catches the red highlights in Kate’s hair, and Alejandro thinks _beautiful._

“I usually never eat breakfast,” Kate says, dishing up the scrambled eggs onto a pair of plates. The toaster dings, and Kate takes two crisp slices out. The milk is already poured into glasses on the kitchen table, and there’s a set of leftover silverware from some fast-food drive-thru, still wrapped up. Alejandro rips it open, looks at the print on the salt-and-pepper packet— _Wendy’s_. He imagines Kate eating a double cheeseburger with fries and a coke after a raid, after a long day of kicking doors off their hinges; filling out paperwork that will go into a file, that will go into a drawer, that will collect dust, that will never make a difference.

 

\--

 

The eggs are actually perfect, while the toast is crumbling with black crusts. The milk is nice and cold. The coffee is hot and strong. 

Kate’s eaten all her food. Her hands are on either side of her empty plate, outstretched and palms up. Her fingers are steady, still. Alejandro reaches out, tracing the life-line between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Last night… I didn’t mean to put this on you.”

“Don’t,” Alejandro says, and folds Kate’s hand between both of his own. He kisses the crown of her head, then her mouth. “Don’t apologize.”

 

\--

 

A row of red and green lights are strung up along the window panes, making the tinsel that hangs from the branches of a small pine tree, sitting by the television set, shine. Kate is all warmth and soft lines, curled up along Alejandro’s side on the couch. He has to leave, and soon. But while he’s here, in this apartment in Arizona, Alejandro wonders if perhaps he hasn’t outlived any feelings of contentment or happiness after all.

**Author's Note:**

> So I went to go see the movie last week, and then went right back to the theater on Thursday and saw it again with friends. I don’t think I’ve seen a film as damn near perfect as Sicario in quite a long time. Just… CHARACTER CUES. Hey, all filmmakers who live in Exposition City—take notes. The writer and director don’t feel the need to tell us everything through dialogue. It’s all in the actors’ physicality and their interplay with each other. It was so damn refreshing I almost felt myself going into shock. 
> 
> The only problem with a movie being this flawless is I feel like seeing it twice was simply not enough to do Kate/Alejandro justice, but I tried. I was playing around with my prose a little bit on this, and since it hasn’t been looked over by anyone else but me, I hope it reads well.


End file.
